


Vincennes

by goldenhart



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 3: Flying Colours, Everybody Dies, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mind the Tags, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24657790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: "My God, Bush," he said, smiling deliriously. "I think you've been the love of my life."Any regret he might have felt at such an admission vanished at the sight of Bush, looking at him with half-anguish, half-wonder."I know you're mine, sir," said Bush, his own smile pained.Hornblower and Bush are brought to Vincennes to stand trial. They do not escape.
Relationships: William Bush/Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 17
Kudos: 33





	Vincennes

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to my beta, sanguinity, without whom I could not have written this. 
> 
> A further debt of gratitude is owed to thehappyreturn, whose story 'Heroes' partially inspired this story. (https://thehappyreturn.livejournal.com/2519.html) 
> 
> Please mind the tags.

Vincennes was nothing but grey, unyielding stone, and in the depths of late January the cold was an aching, bone-deep burden that no fire could relieve. Men awoke in the cold, fell asleep in the cold, and were executed in the cold. Troughs and washbasins and chamber pots froze, and ice filmed the iron bars of cell windows. It was a wretched place, filled with wretched men, and Hornblower hated it from the first time he set eyes on it. 

Brown was sent away from them no sooner had they set foot in Vincennes. “The Butcher of the Mediterranean already has one servant. Another is unnecessary,” the prison warden had sniffed, gesturing at Bush, barely strong enough to stand, his arms over Hornblower and Brown’s shoulders. So Brown had been taken away, and then it was only Hornblower and Bush. 

The cell they were shown to was frigid and dark, its only source of illumination a small window set high above their heads in the wall. There was a bed and a thin straw palliasse on the floor, a table and chair, and a washbasin. A weak fire burned in the grate. 

“Home at last, sir,” joked Bush, sagging against Hornblower who struggled to keep them both upright. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Nonsense,” said Hornblower. “You’ll take the bed. That’s an order, Bush.” 

So Bush took the bed and Hornblower slept on the floor. It was wretchedly cold that first night, and Hornblower could not sleep for shivering. Bush, clad only in his nightshirt and still suffering the effects of losing a foot, fared far worse, and in the morning his face was grey and haggard. It was fortunate, perhaps, that distraction came in the form of a pair of crutches, for at least there Bush could worry about something else. Weeks of lying and sitting had left him as unsteady on his legs as any Jack tar returning to land from months at sea, and he struggled to coordinate his movements with the crutches. But he persevered, and by the afternoon he could make his way from one corner of the cell to the other without Hornblower’s aid. It pained Hornblower to see Bush smiling so, pleased by this smallest of victories — it did not matter that Bush could now hold himself upright, not when he would be dead within days. Hornblower tried to console himself with the thought that at least now Bush would die with dignity, but it was a poor consolation and did not bring him comfort. 

He could not fall asleep that night — some time during the day it had begun to snow and the room, previously cold, was now frozen, the fire in the grate having died that afternoon. He huddled beneath his blankets, shivering, every breath clouding the air. 

“Sir,” came Bush’s voice, and Hornblower rolled onto his back. In the dim light he could make out the shape of Bush, standing with his crutches over Hornblower’s bed. “It’s too cold for you to sleep on the floor.” He paused, the offer he was about to make too great to be made lightly. “Please, sir, share my bed.”

It was a sensible notion, and yet one Hornblower rebelled against. For the better part of ten years he had succeeded in keeping himself apart from Bush, never daring to show Bush the smallest amount of affection. It was not right or proper for a man to feel for his best friend what Hornblower felt for Bush, and so he had held himself back for years, like a drinker who cannot trust himself to only drink in moderation and thus abstains entirely.

“Sir,” said Bush again, and Hornblower heard the honest concern in that voice. Bush would worry after him all night if he slept on the floor, and so it was best for them both if he put aside his objections. 

“Very well, Mr Bush,” he sighed, rising and arranging his blankets around him in the style of a Roman senator. “Which side of the bed do you prefer?” 

“It’s warmer by the wall, sir,” said Bush, hopping along behind him. Hornblower spread the blankets on top of Bush’s and slid beneath, arranging himself as close to the wall as he dared. He felt the mattress dip beneath Bush’s weight and a grunt as Bush lay himself on his side. “Goodnight, sir,” said Bush, and spoke no more, asleep within a matter of minutes. 

It was warmer in the bed, but no easier to sleep; Hornblower’s mind was racing with the thought of Bush sleeping mere inches away from him. Save the carriage, it was the closest they’d ever been — they’d never shared a room before, not even in Kingston, all those years ago. They’d gone whoring then, but not together; Bush had found him a pair of pretty girls who were more than happy to take an awkward young commander under their wing and that had been that. The rest of that bacchanal had been spent gambling and drinking. They had not shared a room then, they had barely shared a room in Portsmouth — there was their time aboard the _Princess_ , of course, but they had slept in four hour shifts, and more oft than not Bush had slept in the times Hornblower was on deck. 

It was a curious thought, to have spent so much of his life beside Bush and yet to have never been physically close. Until that day in the carriage when he took Bush’s hand they had never once shown any sign of affection towards each other — Hornblower knew it was unusual for a fellow to be so withdrawn from the man he called his best friend, but he also knew it was for the best. Lying like this beside Bush was a special kind of torture; he wanted nothing more than to roll over and put an arm over Bush, to hold him close — perhaps even kiss him. That latter thought was a particularly favoured torment: the thought of kissing Bush, and how it might feel. Was he a passionate kisser, as Lady Barbara had been, or a tender one like Maria — assuming, of course, that Bush consented to being kissed in the first place and did not challenge Hornblower to a duel over his lost honour. Hornblower had never kissed another man; he liked women, and told himself any queer stirrings he might have felt towards men were nothing more than a dangerous curiosity — the way a moth is curious about a flame, perhaps — and yet he still found himself wondering how it felt to kiss Bush. It was wretched that he should even be considering such a thing, but the loss of the _Sutherland_ had left him cast off and adrift, vulnerable to acting on the worst of his desires, and so he lay there and hated himself for ever daring to think about Bush in such a way. He tried to picture Lady Barbara instead and tried to recall how it had been to kiss her, but he could not bring her face to mind; each time he tried it was Bush’s face he saw, and frustrated, he closed his eyes and tried very hard to think about nothing at all. 

He woke in the morning wedged between the bed and the wall and was relieved to see that in the night Bush had not moved from where he lay on his side. 

The guards came not long after breakfast to take them to the court-martial. Hornblower dressed in his threadbare uniform, while a poor imitation of a British lieutenant’s uniform was given to Bush to wear. Hornblower helped him wash and shave, helped him into the uniform, pinned the trouser leg so that Bush would not look too undignified during the long walk to the hall where the court-martial was to be held. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Bush, shifting unsteadily on his crutches as Hornblower fussed with his uniform. 

“We are officers of the King,” said Hornblower, straightening Bush’s neckcloth. “We must be faultless in appearance. There, now.” He smoothed the collar of Bush’s jacket, careful not to let his hands linger. “I daresay you’ll pass this Sunday’s inspection, Mr Bush.”

Bush’s smile was sad, but it was a smile nonetheless. He opened his mouth to say something but the sergeant at the door, evidently irritated by how slow things were proceeding, cleared his throat. 

“Your hands, Captain,” he said, and Hornblower’s stomach turned at the sight of the manacles in the sergeant’s hands. 

“What of my lieutenant?” he asked weakly.

“Your lieutenant did not try to effect an escape. Oh, yes,” said the sergeant, grinning at Hornblower’s expression. “Colonel Caillard informed us of your attempt. What a pity you did not succeed.”

It had been nothing short of bad luck. If the boat had not been smashed, if they had been granted even twenty minutes with which to repair it, if Bush — no, it was useless to wonder such things, and unfair to Bush. Hornblower looked at his lieutenant, standing there dressed in a shabby uniform, his left trouser loosely pinned beneath his wasted leg. A recollection rose in Hornblower’s mind, as clear to his inner eye as the cell in which he stood: Bush, beaming with pleasure, as he accepted Hornblower’s diffident offer to serve as _Hotspur_ ’s first lieutenant. His loyalty had been assured even then — how poorly that loyalty had been repaid, time and again. 

“Captain,” said the sergeant, and Hornblower realised he was merely delaying the inevitable. 

“Very well, then,” he said, and held out his hands, praying Bush would not see him tremble. The sergeant placed the cuffs around Hornblower’s wrists and secured them, the cold iron already chafing. As an officer Hornblower had always been treated with a certain modicum of dignity; he had never been bound like this before, as though he were a common criminal, and a sharp fear rose within him. 

“Sir,” said Bush, hobbling close. Balancing on his good leg, he reached out and touched Hornblower’s collar, adjusting it to his liking. There was comfort and certainty in his touch, and Hornblower accepted it, grateful for the courage it restored. “There now, sir,” said Bush quietly, his kindly blue eyes meeting Hornblower’s as he stepped back. “A little crooked, that’s all.” 

Two guards accompanied Hornblower, two more accompanied Bush, struggling with his crutches down the winding stair and through the corridor into the courtyard. As they crossed the courtyard Hornblower cast a glance backwards and saw Bush’s face was grey with exhaustion; a day’s practice had been inadequate to restore his strength. He forced himself to look away; he could no more help Bush than Orpheus could help Eurydice in the ascent from the underworld. All that he could do would be to grant Bush some dignity by turning away. 

The court-martial was held in a large hall, where a crowd — a motley mix of soldiers, guards, and servants —gathered so great in numbers some were forced to stand outside. At the far end of the hall lay a great table where sat a general whose name they had been informed was Clausen, a heavy-set Alsatian with a bristling red moustache and sharp blue eyes. He was flanked on either side by three officers, and at each end a junior officer sat, a pile of papers before them. The officer at Clausen’s right hand was none other than Caillard, who smirked when Hornblower caught his eye. Hornblower swallowed hard; this was to be as he feared, then — nothing more than a sham trial, a grotesque mockery put on to bring shame to England and glory to France. It took no small amount of effort to continue through the crowd and stand before the table. One of the officers on the left hand side of the table rose to his feet. “Your name?” he asked flatly in French. 

“H-Horatio Hornblower,” stuttered Hornblower, anxiety resurrecting the hated stammer of his youth. “Captain in His Britannic Majesty’s N—”

Someone in the crowd jeered, and others quickly joined in until the hall was ringing with the sound of taunting and laughter. Hornblower turned to see Bush, labouring on his crutches as he made his way through the audience, and realised with sick horror that it was Bush who was being mocked. Bush realised it too, his broad face colouring with shame and fear, and Hornblower saw that every step had become a terrible struggle. It was an awful thing to witness a man as brave and capable as Bush be cowed into submission by a mob, and Hornblower dropped his gaze to the floor. Everyone else in the courtroom might be content to watch, but not Hornblower; he would not bear witness to Bush’s humiliation. 

“Your name?” the officer asked, when Bush at last stood beside Hornblower. 

Even Bush, who possessed no more than the most basic knowledge of French, understood what was being asked. “William Bush, sir. Lieutenant in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy,” he said, his chest heaving from exertion. 

Glances were exchanged across the court; one officer, clearly the secretary, at the far end of the table scribbled furiously. The officer who had asked for their names — the prosecutor, it seemed — turned to address the court. “The prisoners have freely admitted their identity before the court. Their identity has also been admitted to Colonel Caillard. It is submitted, therefore, that their identity is proved.” The judges nodded, and the prosecutor turned back to Hornblower and Bush. “Captain ‘Ornblower, Monsieur Bush, you are brought before this Military Commission today to be tried on the charges of piracy and the violation of the laws of war, the penalty for which is death. How do you plea?” 

“Not guilty.”

The prosecutor’s expression was carefully neutral. “Do you have any preliminary remarks?” 

Hornblower relayed this to Bush, who shook his head. He was clammy and pale, and Hornblower could see that he was struggling to keep his balance. 

“A chair, please,” said Hornblower, and two chairs were brought forward. Bush sagged into his chair gratefully, and Hornblower sat in his with the unease of a man for whom inaction was tortuous. 

“Very well,” said the prosecutor. “Let us begin.” 

Even after almost two months of speaking French daily Hornblower found his ability to comprehend and speak the language challenged to the utmost. Several times the prosecutor was forced to repeat himself, and once Caillard, with his facility for English, was called upon to provide a translation. The questions themselves were no easier; there was no aspect of Hornblower’s professional career that was not interrogated, from his relationship with his superiors and his subordinate officers to the way he ran his ship. Worst of all were the outrageous lies and mistruths presented in the guise of honest questions that Hornblower corrected, one by one, until he felt numb. No, he had not burned down a village. No, he had not ordered the abuse and murder of innocent peasant women. No, he had not refused to accept a French officer’s parole, instead choosing to hang the man. When questioned about the storming of the battery at Llanza he cited the historical precedents that had driven him to act: at this, Clausen nodded gravely, but Hornblower could see almost admiring look in his bright blue eyes. 

It was only when the prosecution put questions to him about Rosas that Hornblower heard his voice falter. As he spoke he found himself not in the courtroom at all, but back on the quarterdeck of the Sutherland, surrounded by Hell itself: the thunder of cannons and the cries of the ship as she was torn apart; the blood pooling in the scuppers; the terrified screams of the men; young Longley, weeping as he died; Bush — Bush. 

“Thank you, Captain,” said the prosecutor, taking a seat. “That will be all.” 

Clausen nodded, stroking his moustache. “Very well. Captain ‘Ornblower, you may present your defence.” 

The journey to Paris had allowed ample time for Bush and Hornblower to prepare their defences, but the look on Caillard’s face made it obvious that their fate had already been decided. It left him with only one possible course of action. 

“My lieutenant, William Bush, monsieur.” Clausen arched an eyebrow. “He was only doing his duty under my orders as his superior officer. You can see for yourself that he is a cripple now — surely, monsieur, he has paid his pound of flesh.” 

“Nonetheless, he carried out his orders. By law should you be found guilty and sentenced to execution, so will he.”

“Yes, but — surely, monsieur, you will not see fit to execute a man for the crime of loyalty.” It was a melodramatic speech, but it was a melodramatic moment. There was sympathy in Clausen’s eyes, but the rest of the officers remained stony-faced and solemn. They wanted Hornblower to beg; they wanted him to throw himself on his knees and plead with them for mercy. 

“Loyalty has no bearing on guilt,” said Caillard, a mirthless white smile showing beneath his black moustache. 

“In God’s name, spare this man!” rasped Hornblower. “Please.”

“Thank you, Captain ‘Ornblower,” said Clausen, and turned to his fellow officers. “Very well, gentlemen, I believe we have heard all we need to for now. We will reconvene in two hours. Guards, take the prisoners away.” 

Hornblower was only dimly aware of being led back to the cell; he was no more conscious of his surroundings than a somnambulist. Only when they were inside the cell and the sergeant had removed his manacles did some sense return to him. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his wrists where they had been chafed by the cuffs. The skin was pink and raw but Hornblower took no notice, the pain serving as a welcome distraction. 

“Let me see, sir,” said Bush, sitting beside Hornblower on the bed. He took Hornblower’s wrists in his hands and examined them carefully, turning them this way and that. “They’ve made ‘em too tight, sir, that’s the trouble,” he said, frowning as his thumbs stroked over the tender skin. It was too much; Hornblower pulled his hands away, disturbed by the intimacy of it, and rose to his feet. He wanted to pace, to drive the thought of Bush’s touch from his mind, to lose himself in the steady rhythm of it, but he could not. Bush knew him too well: to pace the length of the room would be to admit to restlessness. It took no small effort to seat himself back down on the bed and look at Bush. 

“I suppose it’s too much to hope they might bring us something to eat,” he said, forcing a smile.

If Bush was taken aback by the sudden change in conversation he hid it well. “Aye, sir,” said Bush, his head bowed as he rubbed at some ache in his right hand. He did not look up, and Hornblower could tell that he was thinking. “Sir — what did you say to ‘em, sir? About me, I mean.” 

“Nothing.” 

“Only I heard my name, sir,” he continued, still fussing with his hand. “I don’t need for you to be worrying on my account, sir.” 

“Nonsense, Bush,” snapped Hornblower. “What I do or say is none of your concern.” 

“Sir—”

“Listen to me. They mean to question you this afternoon.” Bush did not look up. “Bush, listen to me. They will ask you to speak against me, to deny me. Listen to me!” Bush made no indication that he had heard, and Hornblower felt despair rising within him. He grasped Bush’s hands, desperate that Bush should hear him and understand. “You will do it. You will say that you were under my orders, that you had no choice. Do you understand? You will stand and you will speak against me.” 

At that Bush looked up, and the conflict in his expression was terrible to behold. “Sir—” he began, but Hornblower ignored him. 

“You will do it,” Hornblower ordered, his voice harsh with fear. “That’s an order, Mr Bush.” 

“I can’t, sir,” pleaded Bush, shaking his head. “Please, sir, don’t you see? Ask me for my life, ask me for anything I might give, but do not ask me for this.” 

“You will do it.” 

“No, sir,” said Bush, his face set in grim determination. “No, sir, I won’t.”

Hornblower tightened his grip on Bush’s hands. “Bush, enough.”

“Why?” Bush asked. “Why should I care to go on living when you are dead? What use is a world without you in it?”

“Hold your tongue,” Hornblower demanded, releasing Bush’s hands. “You will do as I say. I’ll hear no more on the matter.” 

Bush was still stubborn. “Sir—”

“Enough!” roared Hornblower, springing to his feet. “Christ, man, did you lose your wits as well as your leg?” It was a cruel thing to say, and Hornblower regretted it at once; it was horrible to see Bush turn away, bowing his head to hide his hurt, but Bush did not know what Hornblower knew. He would not be so willing to die alongside Hornblower if he knew his captain’s true nature, if he knew of Hornblower’s cowardice, of his fear, of his wretched desires. He did not know that Hornblower was not worthy. 

They did not speak again. Bush, wounded by Hornblower’s words, sat hunched on the bed, consumed with misery: Hornblower, in the chair opposite, made no effort to comfort him. It would be better if Bush resented him, perhaps then he might not be so eager to die. Bush, dead. Hornblower’s spirit rebelled against the notion of it, even as he reluctantly accepted his own fate; he could not bear to see Bush dead. Recollections of Rosas rose once more in his mind: memories not of the battle, but of the aftermath, of Bush lying on the deck as the _Sutherland_ was towed beneath the guns of Rosas, a tourniquet around his shattered leg, too weak to shade his eyes from the harsh sun; Bush, ashen-faced and near death on the stretcher that served for his bed, lying alongside the rest of the wounded in that dank casement. It was all too easy to imagine Bush dead, to imagine him pale and still, those frank blue eyes lifeless and vacant. 

It was a relief when the guards came for them at last to take them to the court-martial. This time, there was only dull resignation when the sergeant manacled Hornblower’s hands; he no longer had the heart to protest.

The crowd inside the courtroom was showing signs of growing agitation; Hornblower had no sooner set foot inside the hall when he was greeted by jeers, the audience pressing close around him, jostling his guards in their belligerence. They hated him, he realised, and it gave him a perverse courage; they expected him to be intimidated, and they would be disappointed. The man who had flown false colours and captured the battery at Llanza, the man who had rowed the _Lydia_ under the guns of the _Natividad_ , the man who had outwitted the _Loire_ with a 20-gun sloop — he would not be beaten into submission by a mere mob. He would show them what it was to be brave.

Clausen wore his weariness openly as he acknowledged Hornblower and Bush’s presence before him. He nodded at the prosecutor, who rose to his feet and began the necessary introductory remarks that preceded a court-martial. Hornblower was not listening, preoccupied with maintaining his composure in the face of what he knew to be his doom. Perhaps it showed; Bush’s crippled knee pressed against Hornblower’s, and as Hornblower glanced down Bush surreptitiously reached out to stroke the back of Hornblower’s hand with the knuckle of his forefinger. 

“Monsieur Bush,” said the prosecutor, and Bush rose awkwardly. 

“Sir,” he said. 

“You are brought before this Military Commission on the charges of piracy and the violations of the laws of war, the penalty for which is death,” the prosecutor said. “How do you plead?”

Bush turned to Hornblower. “Sir?” he asked, and Hornblower understood. 

“I will translate for Mr Bush,” said Hornblower, and was rewarded with a relieved smile from Bush. 

“As you wish,” said the prosecutor. “We will continue.”

If Bush had hoped that his interrogation would be any less rigorous than Hornblower’s, he was soon proven wrong. No detail was too small; Bush was questioned, and questioned again, until the prosecution was satisfied with the answer. Hornblower noted with pride how Bush responded to each question with care, never once allowing himself to be manipulated into saying anything more than the truth. Frustrated though Bush was with the examination, the prosecutor was quickly growing more frustrated, until at last he tried a different approach. 

“What kind of man would you say Captain ‘Ornblower is?” he asked, and Hornblower relayed the question. 

Bush stiffened, stood up straighter. “A good man,” he said. “The best man I know, sir. Honourable to a fault. Brave too, sir, braver than me. I’ve watched him put himself in harm’s way more times than I care to count, but you’d never know it to speak with him. And he’s kind, sir, kinder than any captain I’ve ever known. He doesn’t use and waste the lives of his men as if they were no more than powder or shot; look at me, sir.” Bush gestured to his leg. “I would have died if not for him. He cared for me, sir, tended to my leg, taught me to walk again, helped me dress. Few captains would be so kind to their lieutenants.”

For any other man such a speech might have been easily dismissed as melodramatic, but not Bush; he was too honest a man to lose himself to sentimental fancies. This was not the idle flattery of the sycophant, these were the heartfelt words of a man for whom grandiose speeches were something to be mocked, not emulated. Every word he had spoken, he meant, and Hornblower could only sit there, unsettled by the depth of feeling Bush evidently possessed towards him. He was none of the things that Bush believed him to be, and yet perhaps it did not matter. Bush believed all these things to be true, and so, perhaps, in a sense, they were. A strange and fierce sort of longing rose in Hornblower’s breast, and he recognised it now as the same longing he had felt all those years ago, when they both had been young men aboard the _Renown._ He had yearned for Bush then — yearned for his regard, his companionship, for more carnal matters too — but he had put that aside, like all childish things, the day he wed Maria. Now it returned, strengthened by so many years of denial, and Hornblower stared up at Bush, utterly lost for words. 

“Sir?” asked Bush, concerned. “You’ll tell them what I said, won’t you?” Hornblower nodded; it would not serve to deceive Bush now. He conveyed Bush’s words to the court, aware that Bush was watching him closely. Clausen’s sandy eyebrows arched sharply as he listened, Caillard scoffed, and one of the young officers tittered.

“Perhaps he is in love with you,” sneered the young officer, when the speech was concluded. Hornblower felt faint; the ugly, naked truth of it spoken aloud at last. And yet it was the truth, try though he might to deny it, as he had all these long years: it was love that he felt towards Bush — a curious, convoluted sort of love, perhaps — but love all the same. 

Smatterings of nervous laughter broke out amongst members of the audience until they were elbowed into silence by their neighbours. Of course they would laugh; who would not, to hear of the captain who had fallen in love with another man, his own lieutenant, no less? It was monstrous. The ache in Hornblower’s wrists was a welcome distraction and he twisted his hands in the manacles, desperate for the clarity that pain provided.

“Sir?” asked Bush, looking at Hornblower with concern, uncertain of what he had said to provoke such laughter. “What did he say, sir?” 

It would be better to lie. It would be better to say that the officer had made some cruel joke about Bush’s leg, that the court was laughing at his disability, but Hornblower had watched them do that only that morning and had watched Bush’s face crumple when he realised it was he who they mocked. He could not do that deliberately to Bush; he could not bear that wounded look. He took a deep breath, and fixed his eyes firmly on the floor.

“‘Perhaps your captain is in love with you,’” he said softly. Better to have the truth out now, than to let it fester. He forced himself to look at Bush, expecting to see disgust, but Bush’s expression was one of quiet hurt instead, and it startled Hornblower to see it. “Bush?” he asked, in spite of himself. 

Bush smiled, the curve of his lips brittle and artificial. “What a silly thing to say,” he said quietly. 

Of course Bush would think the whole notion foolish; to his sensible and sturdy mind, the thought that his captain might hold any affection for him beyond that of the natural feeling shared between brother officers was simply unthinkable. He could not know of the profound sentiment Hornblower had guarded from him so carefully over the years. 

“Monsieur Bush,” said Clausen. “You may present your defence.” 

So this was to be it then. Bush shifted on his crutches at the word ‘defence’ and turned to Hornblower.

“Sir,” he said in a soft voice, “Promise me that you will speak true.”

There was only one possible answer to that. “On my honour,” said Hornblower, and Bush gave him a rueful smile before turning back to the judges. 

“I have no defence, sir,” said Bush, and Hornblower bowed his head, utterly numb. “You wish for me to denounce my captain, to declare that he is as wicked as you say he is — I will not. I cannot. He is the best man I know. He would have me damn him so that I might live.” Hornblower glanced up to find Bush’s frank blue eyes looking into his. “But my place is at his side: it always has been, and it always will be. Whatever fate is his to endure is mine as well.” With these words Bush sat, his whole body shaking from effort, and Hornblower watched as Bush’s hand stirred and moved towards him: he took it and felt a gentle pressure.

He did not want to repeat what Bush had said; some frightened, childish part of him wanted nothing more than to lie and pretend that Bush had condemned his captain and pleaded for his own life. But he had given Bush his word, and his honour — what was left of it — would not let him break that promise. He conveyed Bush’s words with as much precision as he could, careful to not allow his sorrow from colouring his language. At last it was done, and Clausen and the other judges nodded at one another. 

“Thank you, Monsieur Bush,” said Clausen. “We will need a moment.” 

So it had all been decided then; there was to be no grand deliberation over this, only quiet conferring between the judges as to the exact nature of their fates. Bonaparte must have already passed his sentence on them. 

“Sir,” said Bush, quietly, and Hornblower noted with distant pleasure that Bush had not let go of his hand. “You did all you could, sir.”

“I tried to have them spare you, Bush,” said Hornblower. “I really did.” 

“I know, sir.” He pressed Hornblower’s hand. “You’ve brightened the world for me, you know.” 

There was nothing to do now but close his eyes and try to find comfort in Bush’s touch, even as his heart fluttered madly in his chest like a snared bird. Bush’s shoulder pressed against his own, and Hornblower found himself recalling the days after their failed escape on the banks of the Loire. That failure, and Caillard’s constant ridicule over it, had stopped Hornblower’s tongue with misery and no amount of cajoling from Bush or Brown could loosen it again. But Bush had been determined, and when it became clear that his captain would not respond to words his hand had stolen into Hornblower’s and remained there, sometimes for hours, until at last the gentle reassurance brought Hornblower back to himself. 

A chair scraped against the flagstones and Hornblower opened his eyes. Clausen stood on his feet, a decided apology in his blue eyes. 

“It is the order of this military commission,” said Clausen, “That the said ‘Oratio ‘Ornblower and his accomplice, William Bush, have been found guilty of the crime of piracy and the violation of the laws of war. They shall suffer death by shooting at dawn tomorrow.”

The crowd roared in displeasure, but Hornblower could only look at Bush, sitting there with a sad smile on his lips as he stroked Hornblower’s hand. 

“Pirates are hanged, Your Excellency,” said the prosecutor, but Clausen shook his head. 

“It is the order of this commission that these men are to be shot at dawn,” he said, and turned to Hornblower and Bush. “It is a pity when a man’s loyalty costs him his life. This commission is terminated. Remove the prisoners.”

A day from now he would be dead, Bush too. It was senseless, cruel beyond measure, that Bush should have to suffer for a crime that was not his. Hornblower rose to his feet, only dimly aware of the crowd’s anger; the men of Vincennes, who only that morning hungered for a public death for the Butcher of the Mediterranean and his accomplice, now protested the sentence. Like the waters of the Red Sea they parted before Hornblower and Bush, their heads bowed — as if in respect — as the two men made their way into the crowd. 

An old man, his hat in his hands, began to sing, softly at first, then with more courage as other voices joined his. A hushed, reverent song — Hornblower strained to catch the words even as the noise wore at him — something about tyrants and traitors receiving their reward. 

“The Marseillaise, sir,” whispered Bush, and Hornblower looked at him in surprise. It was well known that Napoleon had banned the Marseillaise, believing it too seditious an anthem to be sung by loyal servants of Empire, and perhaps it was; Hornblower recognised that this was an act of disobedience, a defiance of the tyrant who had so casually sentenced these two English officers to death. Bush was visibly moved; there were tears in his eyes as they left the hall behind and stepped into the courtyard. As the doors closed Hornblower could hear the song continuing, and someone — Caillard, perhaps — madly shouting for order, to no avail, and Hornblower saw, with sibyllic clarity, how France would once more take up arms against its rulers. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but someday, and Hornblower could only hope that some small seeds of later rebellion had been sown here today. It was as worthy a legacy as he could hope to leave behind him. 

Outside, the sky was pale white, the clouds threatening snow. Hornblower took a deep breath; he would not step outside again until he was taken to be executed. He would never again see the sea, he would never again hear the wind in the rigging, feel the quarterdeck roll beneath his feet, smell the acrid tang of gunpowder. That capricious, mercurial sea that had been his whole world for seventeen years was forever lost to him. He mourned its loss as dearly as he had mourned his children. 

A crushing depression came over him as they entered the dreary cell once more, and he could not bring himself to speak, not even when the sergeant released him from his manacles and asked him when he would like his supper. He was grateful when Bush provided the man with an answer and sent him away; Hornblower sat down on the chair and sank his head into his hands, utterly lost to misery. He thought longingly of Maria, of the child that had surely been born by now. Were they safe and well? Perhaps it was a little boy — Hornblower had hoped for a boy, in spite of himself. No child could ever replace the two he had lost, but if he had been given the chance he would have loved his little son or daughter as dearly as he had loved the others. Maria would love and cherish their child, he could be sure of that, and would keep Hornblower’s memory alive. Would the child know it had been beloved by its father? He had to believe it would. 

And then there was Barbara. He had loved her, even as he had spurned her affections: would she mourn for him now? Or had she found someone else, someone younger and brighter to bring her joy? He hoped she had; their love had been as fierce as a summer tempest, but no longer lasting. Still, it ached to think of her in another’s arms, passionate and joyful. No, it would not do to think of Barbara. 

Here was Bush now, a cup in his hands. Hornblower realised that Bush was speaking to him, trying to coax him out of the black mood that had swept over him. Loyal, brave Bush. Bush did not deserve to die in a cold ditch on behalf of some penniless, miserable captain; he deserved to die at the height of battle, struck down in the moment of victory, buried in his hammock as befit a sailor. It seemed unfathomably cruel that this should be his fate, and yet it was the one that he had chosen. 

“Sir,” said Bush again, pressing the cup into Hornblower’s hands. “They’ve brought us food, sir. Wine, too.” 

Hornblower took the cup and sniffed it: a rich claret, not the sort of thing a man might expect from a French gaol. There was food on the table, too: an omelette, still warm, half a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese. It looked delicious, and yet Hornblower found he did not have the stomach for it. He put down the cup and rose from his seat. 

“You should eat,” he said, and retreated to the bed. So this was defeat, at long last, for himself, and for Bush too. Twenty-five years Bush had been at sea, twenty-five years of hardship and adversity: he would never know what it was to enjoy a life of peace and security. He would never know the tender love of a devoted wife, the joy of holding his child in his arms, the pride of watching them grow older, the comfort of being surrounded by a family in his final years. He would never know if all he had suffered had been in vain. 

It was too much. Hornblower lay down on the bed, his back to Bush, and closed his eyes. He hugged himself, feeling sick and shaken; there was to be no escape this time, no final reprieve. He would die tomorrow, and Bush with him. It was all so damnably unfair. 

The mattress dipped beneath Bush’s weight, a protective arm wrapping around Hornblower’s chest. Hornblower curled in on himself and felt Bush, pressed against his back, do the same. Perhaps Bush needed the contact of another body as dearly as Hornblower did, perhaps he too feared what the morning would bring. That fierce and desperate yearning that Hornblower had once felt for Bush rose within him anew, and he pushed Bush away and left the bed, upset by the intensity of his reaction. He began to pace, compelled to clear his mind from the memory of Bush’s touch. It was for this very reason he had held himself back all these years, why he had only dared to reach out when Bush was suffering from the loss of his leg. He was overwhelmed by the monstrosity of his desire. 

“Sir,” said Bush, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir.” 

But Hornblower did not hear him. He was trembling with passion, the hot blood running under his skin as delirious images ran through his mind. He sat beside Bush and took Bush’s hand in his, caressing it as though it were the delicate hand of a pretty woman, instead of the rough paw belonging to an old sailor. 

“Share this last watch with me,” he said, and Bush nodded. 

“Aye aye, sir,” he said, his blue eyes fixed on Hornblower’s. The warm candlelight smoothed Bush’s features, and Hornblower saw for a moment the young lieutenant he had once known. How dearly he had wanted to kiss that young man, to touch him and hear him cry out in pleasure. Then the light flickered, and Hornblower saw Bush as he was now, his face craggy from illness and fatigue, and yet somehow beautiful all the same.

“Bush,” Hornblower said, overcome with feeling, and brought Bush’s palm to his lips. When Hornblower glanced up he saw that Bush’s eyes were half-closed and his cheeks were flushed. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lean in and kiss him, and yet Hornblower could not; at this his courage failed him. “Bush,” he said again, desperate, pleading. He was not brave enough to kiss his friend. 

But Bush — Bush had always been braver than Hornblower. He pulled his hand free and cupped Hornblower’s cheek, drawing him into a tentative, lingering kiss. 

Delicate though the kiss was, hesitant as Bush had been, it set off a reaction in Hornblower like a spark in a powder magazine. Everything that he had held back in secret for ten years swept over him all at once; the need for gentle affection and fierce passion that he had guarded so carefully all his life overpowered him now with its urgency. Perhaps Bush felt the same; his mouth opened beneath Hornblower’s and with his other hand he reached up to cradle Hornblower’s face, coaxing him into a deeper kiss. There was wine on Bush’s lips, heady and honey-sweet, and Hornblower kissed him, intoxicated by the taste. He tugged at Bush’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and was about to lower Bush to the bed when Bush pulled away, his face ghastly white and twisted with apprehension. 

“Sir,” he warned, clutching at Hornblower’s jacket, and Hornblower realised that in his fervour his leg had jostled Bush’s stump. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, but Bush shook his head. 

“It’s tender, sir, nothing more.”

“Anything I can do?” 

Bush shook his head again. It was obvious that he was ill at ease with asking for any accommodation to be made for him on account of his injury. Hornblower put two fingers beneath Bush’s chin, tilting his head upwards, and kissed him gently. 

“Lie down with me, William,” Hornblower said, and Bush nodded. 

“Aye, sir,” he whispered, and leaned in to kiss Hornblower, but Hornblower held him back. 

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” said Hornblower. It would be irritating to have Bush address him in such a formal fashion for the rest of the night. “I have a name.” Wretched a name though it was, there was an odd pleasure in the thought of Bush calling him by it. 

But Bush only looked up at him with a confused, wounded expression. “Sir, please,” he implored. “I can’t. It would be a discourtesy.” 

Now wasn’t that just like Bush to fuss over propriety when he had been only too happy to disregard it moments before. 

“A discourtesy, you call it?” asked Hornblower, a trifle sharply. “After you kiss me that way?” 

It was gratifying to see Bush pale and look away; it was gratifying to be reminded that he was only human. Hornblower caught Bush’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. 

“Sir,” said Bush, flustered beyond words.

Hornblower was not done. “Or are you only capable of one discourtesy at a time?” Bush was not looking at him; Hornblower had effectively teased him into silence. “Bush, speak to me.” 

“Sir, please,” begged Bush, and Hornblower could not help but grin at Bush’s anxiety. 

“Oh, as you wish. Anything to make you kiss me,” he said. 

Bush did: a bold, shameless kiss that made Hornblower ache with the feeling of it. Sorrow stole into his heart once more, and he clutched at Bush’s shoulders, desperately relieved at the warmth and strength of Bush’s body. He wanted more, he realised, he wanted to feel Bush’s body against his, he wanted — he blushed hotly at the thought and broke off the kiss. 

“Sir?” Bush asked, and Hornblower’s flush deepened. “What is it?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” said Hornblower dismissively. He busied himself by removing his jacket and shoes, all the while averting his face from Bush. “Lie down and I will join with you in a moment.” Now that was a clever thing to say: it was just as well that Bush was not the sort for ribald humour and would see nothing suggestive in the remark. Hornblower swore at himself as he prised off his shoe and turned back to Bush, who gave him a shy half-smile. No, he would not explain this sudden desire to Bush; it would be better to simply kiss him and allow the night to unfold as it would. Hornblower moved up the bed, arranging himself beside the wall on Bush’s uninjured side, and after a moment’s hesitation, put his head on Bush’s shoulder. 

He could hear Bush’s heart — that steady, slow pulse — and he closed his eyes against a sudden surge of emotion. It was too soon; he was not ready to lose what he had only just found. ‘How sweet and right it is,’ the poet Horace had written, ‘To die for one’s country.’ A cheap phrase; Horace had never held his friend in his arms the night before they would both die at the hands of a tyrant. Horace had never known what it was to listen to a heart beating and wonder how long it would be until that heart ceased forever. For a man to die for his friend, to lay down his life alongside him, that was surely the greater glory. A gentle hand touched his cheek, and Hornblower opened his eyes to find Bush watching him with marked concern. 

“You’re alright, sir,” said Bush, and Hornblower sat up, dismayed that his distress should be so obvious. He plucked at his neckcloth, unable to rid himself of it quickly enough, and threw it aside.

“Help me off with this,” he said, gesturing to his waistcoat. Bush carefully manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, his good leg bent beneath him, and began to work away at Hornblower’s buttons. Bush had marvellous hands, sturdy and capable, and Hornblower writhed at the thought of those cool hands against his fevered body. Bush’s clothes were a sudden obstacle: Hornblower snarled in frustration as he tugged Bush’s neckcloth free and fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat. He wanted it off, and he wanted it off now; the need had never been greater. At last the waistcoat was gone, and he could run his hands freely over Bush’s shoulders, feeling the sharp bone and hard muscle beneath. Bush was thinner now than he’d ever been, his once formidable strength stolen away by illness and fever, and Hornblower withdrew his hands, disquieted by Bush’s frailty. 

But what Bush had lost in physical strength he retained in moral courage; he would not allow Hornblower to retreat so easily. He clasped Hornblower to him, his kiss firm and insistent, as he pushed Hornblower’s waistcoat from off his shoulders and plucked at Hornblower’s shirt. Hornblower sat back and pulled it off, motioning for Bush to do the same. The night air was cool against his bare skin, and Hornblower shivered as he unrolled his stockings. It didn’t matter; he would be warm soon enough. 

“Sir,” said Bush, and Hornblower saw that he was hesitating.

“Off,” ordered Hornblower, and with no small degree of reluctance Bush drew the shirt over his head and cast it to the floor. “That too.” Bush obediently pulled off his sock and set it aside, but when he brought his hand to the buttons of his trousers Hornblower grasped his wrist and stopped him. 

“Leave that,” he said. It would not do to prevail upon Bush any more than was necessary, and Bush’s expression was one of honest relief as he lay back down on the pillows. He kept glancing away from Hornblower, a nervous flush in his cheeks, but Hornblower found himself lingering over the sight of Bush. Haggard though he was through long illness, there was no denying that he was a handsomely proportioned and well-made man, unlike Hornblower, who at thirty-four was still as lanky as he had been in his youth. He ran his hand down Bush’s flank, and like a ship turning into the wind Bush rolled to face Hornblower, pillowing his head on his forearm.

It was the most natural thing in the world to kiss Bush now, to put an arm over him and pull him close until they lay chest to chest. There was tremendous delight in running a hand down Bush’s back, feeling the sharp notches of his spine, the hard muscle, the smooth scars. Hornblower touched him with care, memorising every detail; Bush was so very different to any woman Hornblower had ever lain with, and yet the differences pleased and intrigued him. He ran his fingers through the curls on Bush’s chest; there was no softness here, no warm, supple flesh to fill his hand, only hard muscle, but he did not dislike it. 

Bush was learning too, touching Hornblower’s body with ever-growing confidence. No woman had ever handled him with such assurance; somewhere over the horizon of Hornblower’s mind dark fantasies were taking shape, visions of being held down and used roughly, of being forced to surrender to pleasure. He ran his hand down Bush’s stomach, stopping at the edge of his breeches. 

“No?” Hornblower asked; willing though Bush had been to exchange kisses, this was something else entirely. 

“Yes,” breathed Bush, and nuzzled Hornblower’s neck. 

A wicked thought stole into Hornblower’s mind. “Call me by my name,” he said, and Bush opened his eyes. 

“Sir,” he pleaded. 

Hornblower brushed his fingers over the fall of Bush’s trousers, and was pleased to note that Bush was half-hard already. “My name,” he said, his voice stern even as a smile escaped his control. 

“Sir, please.” Bush’s hips twitched involuntarily, seeking out the friction of Hornblower’s hand. Hornblower denied him even now. 

“My name, William.” 

“Please,” groaned Bush. “Horatio, please.” 

Hornblower kissed Bush, his hand sliding into Bush’s trousers and wrapping around his prick. It was a curious thing, to touch another man’s cock, and yet Hornblower felt no revulsion, only an odd fascination. Bush was utterly at his mercy now; Hornblower could deny him pleasure or bring him satisfaction, all with a movement of the wrist. But then Bush’s hand slipped into Hornblower’s breeches, and Hornblower lost all semblance of reasonable thought. It would be so easy to gratify his need like this, with Bush’s mouth against his and Bush’s hand on his cock, but he wanted more, he wanted — he wanted —

Hornblower tore himself from Bush’s embrace and stumbled from the bed. His valise — there. He rummaged through it until he found what he wanted, bundled in his spare shirt. A small vial, stoppered with a cork: it was oil meant to keep the scars of Bush’s stump soft, but would serve this purpose too. His hands were shaking, his courage paper-thin, but he would not allow himself to founder. He forced himself to picture Bush lying dead, a bullet in his breast, and found that the fear of a rebuff was far less than the fear of never having asked at all. He had to know — he had to try. He brought the vial over to Bush, sitting up on the bed, and pressed it into his hands, making him accept it. Bush looked up, his blue eyes wide and questioning. 

“I want—” Hornblower began, and found his courage failing. He cleared his throat and steeled himself to look Bush in the eye. “I want you to have me.”

Bush was not an imaginative or quick-witted man, but even he could grasp at the intimation here. His hands tightened around the vial and a high colour rose in his cheeks. It had been too great a thing to ask; Hornblower cursed himself silently and turned aside. 

“I’m sorry, Bush,” he said, conscious of the bitterness that stole into his voice. “I will not grudge you if—”

“I want it — sir,” interrupted Bush, setting the vial to one side. That the address should be an afterthought was proof enough of his mental preoccupation; one glance at Bush’s face showed that he was torn between what was no doubt a grave discourtesy to his mind and what he desired all the same. “I want it.” 

Bush had always been brave, braver than his captain. Hornblower leaned in and kissed him, hoping against hope that Bush might not see how his hands still trembled and his pulse fluttered in his throat. It was not so much nervousness that possessed him — although that had not entirely disappeared — but rather a crying need, a raw desire, to possess Bush and be possessed by him in return. 

“How do you want me?” he asked, unsure of how to proceed. Those two wild nights in Kingston so long ago had been his first and last taste of debauchery; he had done his best to remain faithful to Maria following their marriage, and while he had eagerly returned Barbara’s kisses he had been afraid to take her, partly because she was a Wellesley, and to take her into his bed would be to court ruin, but partly because nearly five years of passionless intimacy had left him unimaginative and dull. He barely knew what to do with a woman: with a man, even less.

Bush was flexing his injured leg, rubbing the muscle. “I fear my knee’s no good, sir,” he apologised. “I’ll do my best, of course.” Of course he would, and damn the consequences. Hornblower put his hand on Bush’s stump, and in spite of himself, Bush winced: still tender, then, though he would never admit to such weakness. No matter. 

“Take off your trousers,” ordered Hornblower, rising from the bed and hurriedly unbuttoning his breeches; the fire in the grate had burned down to embers, and a deep chill had set in. “You’ll lie on your side for me.” 

“Aye, sir,” said Bush, carefully removing his trousers. Hornblower averted his eyes from Bush’s stump as he sat back down; even now he could not bear the sight of it. He did not wish to consider who Bush might have been had he not been so loyal: a captain perhaps, or a commander, healthy and whole, his whole life ahead of him. His loyalty to Hornblower had cost him all these things. 

Bush kissed him. His kiss was delicate, more a shy request than a bold conquest, his hand warm against Hornblower’s side. It was enough to draw him back to himself again; he lay back on the bed and pulled Bush down on top of him, revelling in the warm weight of him, comforting in its solidity. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that they were in that draughty little room of his in Portsmouth all those years ago — if only he had known then that his curious desire had been reciprocated. He would give it all up — his command, his prestige, everything — if given a chance to start over, knowing what he did. A life of half-pay, of boredom and hunger — he could survive that, if Bush was at his side. Not Maria, not Barbara, but Bush: stolid, capable Bush. How much happier he might have been, instead of chasing the fantasy of being someone he was not, nor ever could be. 

He drew back from Bush, suddenly self-conscious; as deeply as he longed for affection and tenderness, he feared it made him weak. He had made a request of Bush, one he intended to follow through on. He pushed at Bush’s shoulders, and Bush shifted onto his side. 

“Sir?” asked Bush, and the solicitude in his voice lent Hornblower an odd sort of courage. He rolled on his side away from Bush and drew the blankets around his waist, the warmth welcome in the chill of the night air. 

“I mean to have you, Mr Bush,” he said, the formality of the quarterdeck slipping in unnoticed into his speech. “If you would like that.” 

“Aye, sir,” said Bush. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Like this, sir?” 

“Is there some trouble?” 

“No, sir,” said Bush at once. 

“Then I fail to see your issue with the matter.” 

“It’s only—” Bush began, and quickly thought the better of it. 

Hornblower turned his head to look at Bush directly. “It’s only what?” he said, a trifle more harshly than was called for. Bush was plucking at the sheet of the bed, a troubled expression on his face. 

“Nothing, sir.” 

“Then touch me,” said Hornblower, turning away. 

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush, and placed his hand lightly on Hornblower’s hip. The reluctance of it irritated Hornblower; already he felt his own determination fading in this endeavour, he could not cope with Bush’s uncertainty too.

“Don’t touch me like I’m one of your women,” he snapped, his temper flaring. “I’m not some wench to be petted and coddled.” 

“No, sir,” said Bush, cowed, and he touched Hornblower’s hip again, this time with more confidence. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if you draw your knees up a little, sir, it will give you some leeway when we — when we join.” From the tone of his voice Hornblower could tell that Bush was blushing, and it gave him a grave sort of thrill to hear his lieutenant’s embarrassment so plainly.

Bush withdrew, and Hornblower could sense that he was hesitating. Hornblower found himself fussing with the corner of the pillow, unable to quell the sick apprehension that gripped him. There would be pain in this, or so he’d been informed; nothing like what Bush had endured with the loss of his leg, but pain nonetheless. Would he endure it, or would it defeat him and bring him to shame? He could only hope it brought him peace; he fixed his eyes on the wall, examining the angles and lines of the stonework, and waited for Bush to touch him. 

“Sir,” he said, pressing up against Hornblower’s back, his hand holding them close as he nuzzled Hornblower’s neck. The unexpected affection of it made Hornblower turn his head and steal a kiss from Bush, who obliged him willingly. As the kiss deepened, Bush’s hand moved and wrapped around Hornblower’s prick, handling him with wary confidence. Hornblower broke off the kiss, smothering a groan as Bush’s hand quickened. 

“Do it,” he hissed through gritted teeth when he could stand it no longer. 

“Aye, sir,” said Bush, and then he was gone, only to return a moment later. His hand slipped between Hornblower’s thighs, slick with oil, and with his fingers he brushed upwards through the cleft of Hornblower’s arse, coming to rest at his entrance. 

“Stop delaying,” said Hornblower, fidgeting. 

“Sir,” said Bush, and if there was a hint of reproach in his voice Hornblower staunchly ignored him. “This will be easier if you touch yourself, sir,” he added, daring greatly, but Hornblower merely grumbled at him. Bush fussed worse than an old wife, thought Hornblower as he took himself in hand and gave a few tentative strokes, but Bush kissed his neck again, and the tenderness in the gesture was enough to make him smile. He closed his eyes and turned his face into the pillow. 

“Forgive me, sir,” whispered Bush, and Hornblower grunted as a finger pressed into him, gentle but insistent. There was no pain, but the sensation was strange, neither uncomfortable nor pleasant, and Hornblower opened his eyes as the first finger was joined by a second. It was almost pleasurable now, and Hornblower could feel himself yielding to Bush, his body giving way at last. Still, his mind rebelled even where his body would not, and he snarled with impatience at Bush.

“Christ, man, it wasn’t your fingers I asked for,” he snapped, and rolled over no sooner had Bush withdrawn. “Fuck me, or get out of bed.” 

“You’re too tense, sir,” said Bush, struggling to hide his hurt. 

“Damn your eyes,” swore Hornblower. “I asked you to take me, so take me.”

It was not a request. The hurt look on Bush’s broad face was quickly replaced by a look of determination. He grasped Hornblower by the shoulder and turned him onto his side, and Hornblower felt a perverse pleasure in being so roughly handled; he yearned for the freedom that came with surrender, he hungered for it as a drowning man yearns for air. 

“Easy now, sir,” said Bush, drawing them both into alignment, his prick pressing against Hornblower’s arse. Hornblower pulled his knees towards his chest to better grant Bush the leeway he would need and reached back to touch Bush’s thigh.

“Steady as she goes, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower. 

Bush gave a breathless, mirthless laugh. “Aye, sir,” he said. He shifted his position and then with a sharp exhale he nudged into Hornblower.

Hornblower grunted and clutched at the mattress as Bush pressed into him, fighting down his rising panic. The feeling of Bush inside him was overwhelming and foreign, and Hornblower turned his face into the pillow, afraid that Bush might see his distress. It was not pain that frightened Hornblower — that was no more than a dull ache — but the intimacy of it all; he had been laid bare, the worst of his sins brought to light, and yet Bush had kissed him and touched him, as though he was worthy of affection, as though he was worthy of love. As though this final, desperate act meant as much to Bush as it did to Hornblower. 

With a shudder, Bush began to move, slowly at first, until at last he settled into a measured pace, sometimes faltering in his rhythm but never failing. Hornblower closed his eyes and leaned back against Bush, savouring the discomfort of it, longing for the absolution that pain brought, far more than he yearned for the satisfaction of pleasure. He would do anything, so long as it allowed him to forget himself, if only for a moment.

But Bush would not allow such abnegation of tenderness on Hornblower’s part; he put an arm around Hornblower’s chest, his embrace warm and secure, and Hornblower felt himself yielding at last, what little reserve he still possessed melting away. For the first time in his life he allowed himself to put off the numbing, protective armour he had worn for so very long; exposed and defenceless though he was, he did not fear it. He knew, with a heretic’s certainty, that just as he had entrusted the wellbeing of his ship to Bush’s hands, so too could he entrust himself; Bush would look to him with the same care and attention as he ever had to the _Hotspur_ or the _Lydia_ or even the _Sutherland_. They would come out of this storm of passion unharmed — perhaps even stronger for it. Hornblower pushed away the blankets that covered them both and wrapped a hand around his cock, hard against his belly. This was surrender, he realised, a surrender of his body and soul into the hands of another, and Hornblower gave himself over gladly to it. 

It might have been enough like that, but then Bush moved in such a way that made Hornblower cry out and grab at Bush’s thigh, his fingers digging into the wasted muscle hard enough to bruise. 

“Sir,” whispered Bush, all concern, slowing to a stop. Hornblower could do nothing to alleviate Bush’s worry, capable of little more than panting, open-mouthed, against the pillow. It was as if he’d been struck by lightning; every nerve in his body was electric. 

“Sir,” said Bush, stroking Hornblower’s damp hair. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t wish to hurt you.” He shifted and began to withdraw, and Hornblower realised that if he could not bring himself to speak Bush would retreat, wounded, and spend his final hours in perfect misery, believing he had injured his friend. The notion was intolerable.

“No,” said Hornblower, grasping Bush’s backside. “It’s not pain.”

“But-” 

“Move like that again,” Hornblower ordered, and Bush obeyed with a tentative roll of his hips. Hornblower grunted in displeasure; he did not want Bush’s hesitant and patient efforts and disliked the notion that he was being serviced. It shamed him to think that he was being indulged for his own sake, that Bush was performing a duty, not out of affection for his friend, but out of loyalty to his captain. This was not the base satisfaction of animal desire; he had not touched Bush for want of a warm and willing body, he had touched Bush because he had yearned to do so for a very long time.

“Like this, sir?” asked Bush, his pace languid and leisurely, and something in Hornblower snapped. 

“Damn it, William,” he swore. “It’s you I want. No one else. You.” 

Bush stiffened in surprise as the words took hold. “Sir,” he said, struck shy. Then, in a voice rough with desire, he added, “Oh, _sir._ ” 

There was the concealed passion Hornblower had longed to see. He turned his head and met Bush’s lips, the kiss ruthless and demanding, as Bush pressed into him once more, moving so slowly and so deeply that Hornblower’s breath caught in his throat and his fingers mercilessly grasped at Bush’s thigh. He pushed back against Bush, needing more, needing to lose himself in the feeling of Bush’s body against his, of Bush’s cock moving inside him, and perhaps that need was understood. Bush broke the kiss and slipped a rough hand beneath Hornblower’s leg, drawing it back over his own leg and pinning it in place with his stump, and in response Hornblower reached behind him, his hand wrapping around the back of Bush’s neck, holding him close as Bush’s own hand closed around Hornblower’s prick. This, _this_ was what Hornblower had desired, pleasure with just enough pain to make it all the sweeter, and he clung to Bush as a white hot fire burned through him. They were one, indivisible and whole, complete as only two complementary beings can be when they join, taking, giving, each in turn, lost in an endless sea. There seemed to be no beginning, no end, but at last passion drew back its strength and with one final, terrible effort, dashed him to pieces. Hornblower cried out, clutching at Bush, spilling into Bush’s hand as waves of pleasure washed over him, dragging him down into impenetrable darkness.

Slowly, the world pieced itself together again. He was breathless and damp with sweat, but it scarcely seemed to matter; a curiously lightness had stolen over him, the same sort of elation that a sailor feels on seeing that the storm is past. Hornblower released Bush, untangling his leg from Bush’s stump, and tugged his nightshirt from beneath the pillow. Wordlessly, he wiped his spend from Bush’s hand before refolding the fabric and cleaning himself. 

“Sir,” said Bush, dismayed, but Hornblower hushed him. There was a wet spot on the bed, but he did not care. He reached behind Bush, dropping the nightshirt to the floor, before covering Bush’s hand with his own. 

“Sir,” said Bush again, the word suffused with raw need, and Hornblower felt Bush’s hips twitch, his cock achingly hard. 

“Yes,” said Hornblower, pressing Bush’s hand. Bush drew a ragged breath and pulled his hand free of Hornblower’s, reaching beneath Hornblower’s arm to grasp him by the shoulder. A strangled sob escaped Bush’s lips as he began to move, and Hornblower shifted his knees as Bush pressed himself closer, his self-control slipping as he yielded his body to Hornblower. 

There was something to the way Bush held him that made Hornblower tremble; it was not the careless grip of a man lost to lust, but something diffident and reverential, the touch of a man committing sacrilege. He closed his eyes against the feeling of it, overwhelmed; Bush had seen him vulnerable and weak, and yet he touched Hornblower as though he were sacred. Hornblower could feel it in Bush’s body, he could feel the tension and the worry and the desire as acutely as if they were his own emotions. Perhaps they were; Hornblower was incandescently alive, every atom in him burning with vitality, and he clutched at the mattress as Bush quickened his pace, grunting with every short, hard thrust. 

“Horatio,” croaked Bush, blindly reaching for Hornblower’s hand, and Hornblower took it, pressing it against his chest as Bush strained once, twice more, into Hornblower’s body, his cheek pressing against Hornblower’s shoulder as he spent with a shuddering gasp. 

They lay there for some time after, too overcome to move: Bush, lying against Hornblower’s back, was shaking, and Hornblower stroked Bush’s hand as he might a woman’s, unsure of how else to provide some measure of solace. He himself was adrift, cut off from the rest of the world; as far as he was concerned, this little mattress could be floating on the open sea, so detached was he from his surroundings. He brought Bush’s hand to his lips, kissing the rough knuckles and unfurling the fingers to press a kiss to the palm. He had always admired Bush’s hands — how strange, he thought, that hands so hard and worn should be capable of such delicacy and sensitivity. 

“Horatio,” rasped Bush, his voice hoarse as though he had not spoken for many days. He shifted and leaned over, tugging his hand away to gently run it down Hornblower’s side. Hornblower closed his eyes and surrendered to the touch, unsure of what to do or say as Bush caressed his stomach and hip. It would be easy to fall asleep like this, tangled up in each other, and for a moment Hornblower allowed himself to drift, anchored by the warm bulk of Bush, reassured by his steady presence.

“Sir,” said Bush, pressing a kiss to Hornblower’s neck, his hand gripping Hornblower’s hip urgently. “Sir, we should—” 

“Yes,” said Hornblower, opening his eyes. He touched Bush’s hand. “Do it.”

Bush withdrew carefully, his hand on Hornblower’s hip steadying them both, and Hornblower felt a strange regret at their parting. But dwelling on such feelings would do him no good; he pushed Bush’s hand away and crawled stiffly from the bed. 

“Are you well, sir?” asked Bush, his brow creased with worry. 

“Fine,” said Hornblower, unsteady as a landsman who has yet to gain his sea legs. “I’m fine.”

Their clothes were spread in a haphazard fashion around the bed. There was something curiously pleasing to the arrangement, a physical history of what had taken place. The shoes, discarded there, the lone stocking tossed aside, the shirts indiscriminately tangled. Hornblower smiled to himself as he washed himself in the washbasin: when he looked up he saw that Bush was watching him with an unreadable expression on his craggy face. 

“Here,” he said, washing out the cloth and bringing it to Bush. Bush accepted it gratefully, offering up a lopsided smile in exchange.

“I should get up,” said Bush when he was through, folding the washcloth carefully. 

“Nonsense,” said Hornblower, sitting beside Bush on the bed. “You’ll stay where you are.” 

Bush looked down at his hands, then away. The twitch of his mouth indicated he was struggling with saying something. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said at last. “I’m glad that I — that I could still be of use.” 

Words were not enough to express the depth of feeling that was conjured up by that speech. Hornblower recalled Bush’s speech only earlier that day, when he had stood before the whole court-martial and declared his affection — his admiration — for his captain. He recalled, too, the day that he left the _Hotspur_ , and how he had scorned Bush’s devotion and esteem — and his own fondness towards Bush — as a trifling sentiment. The time for denial was past; he had nothing left to give but honesty. 

He kissed Bush, clasping his neck and drawing him close. The washcloth slipped from Bush’s fingers and fell to the floor, forgotten.

“Lie down,” said Hornblower, urging Bush onto his back. He lay himself down beside Bush as he had before, only face-to-face now, and pulled the blankets up around them both.

“Thank you, sir,” said Bush. Even after so long as an invalid he was still reluctant to be tended to by his captain. 

Hornblower did not answer him. He touched Bush’s cheek with his hand, stroking it with his thumb as he studied that rugged, familiar face, memorising its every curve and line. Bush considered him just as intently. 

This time, it was Bush who kissed him. Hornblower accepted it, the passion that had so consumed him before having ebbed, replaced by something deeper, something achingly profound: he hesitated to give it a name.

When they drew apart Hornblower saw that Bush’s eyes were still closed, a wan smile on his face. He rolled onto his back and Hornblower shifted closer, resting his head on Bush’s shoulder. It seemed the right thing to do; Bush held Hornblower close, stroking his hair. It ought to have brought Hornblower peace, and yet it did not; his accursed temperament would not allow him to indulge in such happiness. 

“I knew that they would execute us in Rosas,” he said, lifting his head from Bush’s shoulder. “I lied to you.”

“No, sir,” said Bush, smoothing Hornblower’s hair. “I knew from the first.”

Hornblower touched Bush’s cheek, unable to disguise his grief. Of course Bush had known, Hornblower had been a fool to think otherwise. He had been so frightened that Bush might lose the will to live if he knew: he had spent hours in perfect anxiety over it, worried that the smallest slip might reveal the truth. It had been a selfish, childish fear; in truth, he had been frightened by the thought that Bush would die and leave him to face the end alone. It had not been compassion — it had been cowardice.

“I’m sorry, William,” he said, withdrawing his hand, ashamed at the attempted — and failed — deception of his friend. Bush had always deserved better than him.

“It was a kind thing, sir. A very kind thing indeed,” said Bush. Then, perhaps sensing Hornblower’s unwillingness to appreciate his words, he added, “You’re a kind man, sir.”

Hornblower cleared his throat. “You would not say that if—” He cut himself short, all too aware he was about to add ‘if you knew the sort of man I was’: a trite phrase, and one that implied false modesty instead of pitiful diffidence.

“No, sir,” said Bush, with unshakeable certainty. “I know you, sir.”

It was a truth too naked to be looked at directly. Hornblower pressed his lips to Bush’s, his kiss a little more cruel than kind, desperate to forget his misery, yearning to remember something better than this moment. He kissed Bush as though it were their last, as though somehow a single kiss could make up for a lifetime of missed chances and blind ignorance. No, not quite ignorance; some quiet part of Hornblower had always known that they were bound to each other by more than loyalty and duty, but he had never dared to articulate it, even to himself. He was as unimaginative as Bush in that regard; in all his grand plans for the future, for all his dreams of a cottage with its shelves of books, or the squire’s country house with its lush estate, he had never once envisioned a place for Bush at his side. And yet — he had never imagined a future without Bush. He had always been present in Hornblower’s imaginings: a shadowy presence, but there all the same. 

Strange, that of all the futures he had never imagined this one. There was no future for him now, only bitter memory. It had not been the fear of rejection that had held him back from Bush all these years, nor the threat of the law, but the fear of acceptance, of consummation: the fear of what they might have meant to each other if only they had been brave. Even now a raw, nameless feeling clawed at him: he was not courageous enough to give it voice. 

Bush was still watching him. Hornblower pushed at him and left the bed, unsettled by the sympathy in Bush’s eyes. He did not want to be pitied, not now, not in these final hours. It was unthinkable that Bush should still be kind to Hornblower after everything; Hornblower had all but signed Bush’s death warrant on the day that he chose to fly false colours and attack the battery at Cape Creux.

The candles were guttering in a pool of wax, the fire no more than ash in the grate. The air of the room was stale, reeking of sweat and sex, and Hornblower longed for the clear air of the quarterdeck, for the sound of the wind in the rigging and the groan of a labouring ship beneath his feet. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands. He was such a fool, such a damnable fool.

Fingers brushed his shoulder, and he turned his head to see Bush beside him, sitting on the bed with his foot on the floor, the blanket draped across his lap. “Sir,” said Bush. “Sir, you should lie down.” 

Hornblower could only shake his head. Without a word Bush’s hand stole into his, his grip gentle but firm. “Sir,” entreated Bush, and Hornblower’s heart broke.

“I’m sorry, William,” was all he could say. “I never meant for it to end this way.”

Bush nodded solemnly, but then he smiled, a little lopsided. “We’ve had a good run, sir,” he said. “No matter how it ends.” 

Despite his brave words, Hornblower could see how Bush’s mouth twisted unhappily, and it was with an unpleasant jolt that Hornblower recognised Bush’s own grief. He released Bush’s hand and took Bush into his arms: Bush clutched at him, burying his face in Hornblower’s shoulder. 

They held each other for some time, until self-conscious and embarrassed at the display, they drew apart. Bush’s eyes were wet and he rubbed at them with the back of his hand, his face flushing in shame as he caught Hornblower watching him. It was not right that a man like Bush should ever feel ashamed: Hornblower realised all too late that Bush had never heard the defence that had been made on his behalf that morning. He was still ignorant of what Hornblower had said. 

“You’re the best man I know,” said Hornblower firmly, taking Bush’s hand. Bush bowed his head, doubt in his expression. “The best first lieutenant a captain could ask for. No, truly, you were good, infuriatingly good,” he added, when Bush shook his head. “I have had only one other as my First and he couldn’t hold a damned candle to you.” 

“It was all your doing, sir,” mumbled Bush, embarrassed.

“Nonsense. I mean every word. D’you hear me?” Hornblower asked, squeezing Bush’s hand, hoping against hope that Bush might sense what Hornblower could not express in words. There was so much more he wished to say, so much more he could say if only he knew how. He could only hope Bush understood. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Bush, and there was a genuine smile on his face this time. “It’s been an honour to serve under you all these years.” 

“Why?” The question was asked before it was even conceived of, and Hornblower cursed himself. It was just like his contrary nature to feel the need to interrogate what any other man might have accepted at face value.

Bush’s expression was one of surprise. “You’re my friend, sir,” he said, as though it were obvious. As though Hornblower’s friendship could sustain a man through peril and hardship. 

Hornblower cleared his throat. “I see,” he said curtly. Bush gave him a look that made it clear he was doubtful of the statement, but was unwilling to pursue it. 

“You should rest, sir,” Bush said instead. 

Hornblower looked him over with a critical eye. “I should think it is you who needs rest,” he said. “You’re exhausted.” 

Bush’s expression hardened. “Sir,” he said, and Hornblower knew he could no more shift Bush from his position than he could change the direction of the wind. He swore at Bush and lay back on the bed.

“Lie down,” he said, and when Bush made a noise of complaint Hornblower scowled at him. “That’s an order.” 

With no small amount of reluctance, Bush obeyed, his body unyielding as Hornblower drew him close and tucked the blankets around them both. Bush seemed to consider it an imposition to lie on his captain’s shoulder; he tried to pull away but Hornblower would not allow him to retreat. Finally he relented, every muscle in his body easing, and when he tilted his face upwards Hornblower kissed him. 

It seemed impossible that Bush should wish for Hornblower to kiss him, and yet he did. He returned Hornblower’s kisses with the same depth of feeling with which they were given, his hand on Hornblower’s cheek and every inch of his body pressed close. It felt right, to kiss Bush and hold him close: it felt right in a way few things in Hornblower’s life ever had. Even now Hornblower could remember the day Bush first called him ‘sir’, and the genuine pleasure in Bush’s smile as he said it. Bush was a man born to follow, Hornblower was a man born to lead: in each other they had found purpose. For a lieutenant to have designs above his station was common, few men did not have ambitions of captaincy. But Bush was not ambitious, and his loyalty was absolute; he knew, as Hornblower did, that what they shared was something few captains and lieutenants ever did, a singularity of purpose and the will and wherewithal to make it so. Hornblower had only ever mistrusted Bush once, during their time on the _Lydia_ , and it still troubled him that he should have ever doubted his friend. He tried not to think of that long, lonely voyage, when he had removed himself entirely from Bush’s confidence even as he longed for the companionship they had once shared. 

And now, this late and unexpected revelation: Bush, fearless in battle, tender and affectionate in Hornblower’s arms. His kiss was sweet, almost innocent, as though it was the first time, and despite himself, Hornblower smiled. 

It was a mistake. Bush broke the kiss, worried. “Sir?” he asked, but Hornblower only shook his head. 

“Nothing,” he said, unable to prevent a smile from escaping the tight line of his mouth. He reached up and touched Bush’s face, smoothing his brow, tucking a wayward curl of hair behind Bush’s ear. Maria always liked it when he lavished attention on her like that — oh Maria. Hornblower exhaled heavily, the smile slipping from his face; she had always deserved better than him. 

“What troubles you, sir?” 

There was a question that could not be readily answered. Hornblower touched Bush’s cheek, the stubble rough beneath his palm. He had denied for so very long the truth of what he was, until it was almost too late. 

“Kingston,” he said, absentminded. “I was thinking on Kingston.” 

“What of it, sir?” 

Hornblower stroked Bush’s face, tracing the sharp ridge of his cheekbone with his fingers, the hard line of his jaw. “Would you have done this, if I had asked?” 

Bush pressed his lips to Hornblower’s fingers. “Yes,” he said. He tilted his head, regarding Hornblower with an odd look in his eyes. “But I don’t think it matters, sir, not really. We found our way in the end.”

“You have no regrets?”

Bush answered him with a gentle kiss. “No, sir,” he said, pulling away, mouth curling into a smile. He rested his head on Hornblower’s shoulder, eyes half-closed, weary but content. 

“Rest,” ordered Hornblower, but Bush shook his head. 

“I made a promise, sir,” he mumbled, stifling a yawn. “Last watch.” 

“Then lie here with me awhile. Talk to me.”

Bush gave a sleepy growl. “What should I tell you?” he said, words slurring together. 

“I don’t know. What do you see in your dreams?” 

It took Bush a moment to answer, and for that moment Hornblower wondered if Bush had fallen asleep. But at last he spoke, his voice thick. 

“The sea,” he said. “You.” 

“Good dreams, I hope.” 

Bush’s hand tightened around Hornblower’s middle. “The best,” he murmured. Hornblower did not answer him. 

It did not take Bush long to fall asleep: he would be unhappy when he awoke, but he needed his strength for the morning. Hornblower knew he ought to feel ashamed for this deception, but he knew its necessity. There was an odd sort of contentment in watching Bush sleep, too; in the weak light of the candles he was almost beautiful, untouched by pain or misery, and Hornblower studied that face until it seemed as familiar as his own. 

Hornblower was himself drowsing when Bush stirred. He opened his eyes to find the cell half in shadow; dawn was almost upon them.

“Sir,” croaked Bush, obviously distressed at having fallen asleep, and Hornblower kissed him until the tension left his body. 

“You kept your word,” Hornblower promised. “I needed you fit for duty this morning.”

Bush nodded, although Hornblower could see his unhappiness. “Sir—” he began, but footsteps outside the door shattered their fragile peace. Bush tried to pull away but Hornblower held him fast; it hardly seemed to matter what the guards thought. 

A young gendarme, half-asleep at this early hour, stepped inside the cell. If he saw anything amiss it did not register on his ruddy face; he did not even look at Hornblower or Bush, his eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Twenty minutes,” he said, and left before either Bush or Hornblower could question him further. The door was locked firmly behind him. Outside, Hornblower could hear a muffled exchange between the two guards. He wondered what they were saying, and found he did not care: let them think what they would. 

He untangled himself from Bush and crawled from the bed, picking up his clothes where they had been discarded on the cold flagstone. His left stocking had a hole, he noted with dismay, and his breeches were wearing thin, but they would serve one last time. He rummaged in his valise for a fresh shirt and found one, but when he held it up he realised it was grey with age and missing buttons, and he sat down on the bed, defeated by linen. He was weary, he realised, weary as he’d never been before. He’d spent half his life at war, since he was no more than a boy, and for what? To die in a ditch, never knowing if his efforts had made even the slightest difference. Everything he had sacrificed, every indignity he had suffered — pinchbeck for his shoes, rotten eggs for his breakfast, the miseries of poverty and the desperate lengths to which he’d gone to keep his ship happy and afloat — what had it all been for? All his achievements were no more than a drop in the ocean — he might never have existed for all the difference he made. Perhaps it would have been better that way. He thought bitterly of Longley; of Brown; of the numerous men, too many to count, who had suffered and died for him — he even thought of Hales, the man whose death he’d caused so long ago. They might not have suffered and died had it not been for him. His own little children would have been spared, if only by virtue of never being born. He sank his head into his hands, remembering that terrible day, and wondered numbly if there was a world after this, if he’d ever see his children again. He did not have an answer, and it did not bring him comfort. 

Dimly, he heard Bush calling his name, but he could not bring himself to respond in any way. He was too weary: he wanted nothing more than to lie back down and go to sleep. He did not want to see Bush; he did not want to think about the suffering he had caused there, too, but gentle hands touched his face and he opened his eyes to find Bush looking at him, obvious concern in his bright blue eyes. 

“Sir,” he said softly. “We need to get dressed.”

Dressed. No final shave, then, no final bath. No final decency. He looked at the shirt in his lap, saw the missing buttons and the ink stain on the cuff, and felt sick. 

“Take mine, sir,” Bush said, reaching down beneath the bed for his own shirt, offering it to Hornblower. “It’s cleaner. Come on, now, sir. Let me help you.” He was fussing with the collar of the shirt, trying to straighten a crease that was not there, and Hornblower reached out, stilled his hands. Bush looked up at him in surprise. There was tension in his face — tension and fear — and for a moment Hornblower forgot himself in his concern for Bush. Bush — brave, kind Bush — who would follow him anywhere, even into death itself. How little he knew that Hornblower would do the same.

“Thank you, William,” Hornblower said, and kissed him. 

Bush smiled at Hornblower when they drew apart again, and Hornblower pretended to not notice that Bush’s eyes were wet. He cleared his throat, ashamed at the emotion that had come over him, and took the shirt from Bush. 

He dressed quickly before helping Bush, allowing his hands to linger as he had never dared to before. Bush was accepting of it, watching Hornblower fuss with that same sad smile on his face, and when Hornblower rose from kneeling, Bush caught his hand. 

“Kiss me again, Horatio,” he said, his voice tight. “Once more, sir. Please.” 

The _please_ was said as an afterthought, and Hornblower understood. He kissed Bush and felt Bush clutch at his jacket, pulling him close, the kiss becoming desperate as they realised it was to be their last.

The key turning in the lock made them part, and Hornblower rose to his feet to greet the pair of guards who stepped through. 

“You will come with us,” the young guard said, and Hornblower nodded mutely. He helped Bush stand and turned to the guards, his hands held out in readiness. The manacles were cold against his wrists, but he did not flinch. Knowing Bush stood beside him was enough to give him strength. 

Slowly, they made their way out of the prison and across the narrow bridge that spanned the deep moat. The sky was lightening, the eastern horizon a rosy pink. 

“Venus, sir,” said Bush, his breath clouding in the cold, and Hornblower looked up to see the planet there, pale against the glow of dawn. It gave him an odd sense of comfort to see it shining there, as constant and unchanging as it had been for thousands of years, and would be for thousands more. He wondered if Bush found the sight as comforting as he did.

The guards led them down a set of narrow stairs, and out into the frosted grass of the moat. Hornblower saw now what he had missed as they crossed the bridge: a dozen soldiers, their shoulder belts pipeclayed white, muskets gleaming. They stood aside as their sergeant stepped forward, a pale-faced man with a sandy moustache. He greeted them cordially, almost apologetically, as he led them to stand before the high wall. It was clear from his manner that their execution had been arranged to be as quiet and discreet as was possible. 

“You are permitted a blindfold,” the sergeant said. Hornblower translated the offer to Bush, who shook his head. 

“I would rather look my death in the face, if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

“We have no need of the blindfold,” Hornblower said to the sergeant, who gave an obedient bow. 

“As you wish. And as for your lieutenant, we shall tie him to a chair.”

“No,” said Hornblower. 

The sergeant’s moustache twitched. “No?” 

“He will stand beside me. I will help him, if you unhand me.”

To his surprise, his manacles were removed. The guards gestured for their jackets, and with some reluctance Hornblower parted with his. 

“Monsieur?” asked the young guard, gesturing to Bush, and Hornblower understood. He stood on Bush’s weak side and put an arm around him, holding him steady as the crutches were taken away. There could be no escape now, he realised as he felt Bush’s hand grip his shoulder, and the futility of it almost made him laugh. This was to be the end of their war, here in the cold dawn of a January morning, yet it did not seem to matter anymore. For just a few hours he had loved, and been loved, as honestly and truly as any man could ever be. He would never know glory or great honour, but this -- perhaps this would be enough. 

The firing party moved into formation, and Hornblower felt Bush stiffen, his breathing shallow as he readied himself, his head held high to face his death.

The sergeant asked for last words, and without being conscious of it, Hornblower turned to Bush. He laughed, near to madness, that old weakness of his to giggle in a crisis stealing away his sense. 

“My God, Bush,” he said, smiling deliriously. “I think you’ve been the love of my life.”

Any regret he might have felt at such an admission vanished at the sight of Bush, looking at him with half-anguish, half-wonder.

“I know you’re mine, sir,” said Bush, his own smile pained. 

The sergeant was barking at them, impatient, but Hornblower ignored him. Nothing mattered now except Bush. 

“Kiss me, William,” Hornblower said in a quiet voice. 

“Aye, sir,” whispered Bush, and pressed his lips to Hornblower’s. 

It was a gentle, sweet kiss, and Hornblower’s heart ached with the finality of it. This was farewell. The corresponding phrase rose to his lips as the kiss ended, but it was Bush who spoke first. 

“Goodbye, sir,” he said, tenderness in his frank blue eyes.

“Goodbye, Bush,” said Hornblower, forcing his lips into a smile, and turned away, while he still could. He felt Bush shift beside him, adjusting his balance, and Hornblower stood up straighter, determined to be brave, for Bush if not himself. “Goodbye,” he said quietly, and felt Bush press against him one last time. Above the battlements, the sky was blue, as blue as the sea.

The sergeant shouted an order and with a clatter the soldiers raised their rifles, but Hornblower did not listen. He closed his eyes and remembered Bush’s kiss. 


End file.
